


Sensory Memory

by thegreatwordologist



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Romance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatwordologist/pseuds/thegreatwordologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Douglas happens on Martin in the midst of some solo pleasure, it changes his whole outlook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2535183#cmt2535183) in the Cabin Pressure DW meme. 
> 
> Beta-read by the lovely [Facsimilii](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Facsimilii)

Douglas would never admit it to any of the others at MJN Air, particularly not Carolyn, but he liked sharing a room with Martin on the longer trips, for one very simple reason. He never had adjusted particularly well to life alone, a condition that had no doubt fueled at least one of his marriage attempts, and the months since Helena's departure from his home added up to the most time he had ever lived alone, even punctuated by the occasional overnight flight that featured a shared room in a cramped and crumbling little... well, hotel would hardly be the word for it, really. Far too posh a word, 'hotel', for the sort of fleaboxes that Carolyn booked them in, but for all the discomfort, Douglas slept well in them, because there was no longer the silence surrounding him at night. Martin wasn't a very loud sleeper, really. He wasn't inclined to move much in the night, didn't toss and turn, didn't sleep-walk or -talk, and thankfully, did not snore, but there was still a presence about him. When he slept in Douglas' room, Douglas could close his eyes and fall asleep to the soft susurrus of Martin's even breathing.

Of course, Martin was not precisely the required ingredient in the little cocktail of Douglas' sleeping habits, and he really wasn't fond of the fleaboxes, so inevitably, he went on the prowl as often as he could. Because what could possibly be better than the comfort of that gentle sound in a package that came with pillow-soft breasts and smooth, delicate skin. More often than not, he was successful, leaving Martin with a room all to himself as Douglas enjoyed the comfort of satisfyingly simple sex before settling into a bed to listen to the nightly sounds of his lover du jour. Yes, most of the time, he could say with a certain ego-bolstering self-satisfaction that he was successful in his prowl, but it had never bothered him if his target wasn't particularly interested, after all, because there was always the nightly presence of Martin to lull him into slumber. So when his night skewed sideways over the rather amusing discovery that the woman he'd been chatting up all evening had only let it continue to make her own lover jealous, he assured her he was happy to oblige and left without any hurt feelings. "Another time," he'd said blithely, knowing it was unlikely. But it had made her apologetic smile warm a little more before she slipped away, and left in a bar with a glass of water was not Douglas' idea of a good time. He'd paid his meagre tab and had headed back to the room he was to share with Martin, smiling as he did so because no matter what the night had held, he won. 

He entered the room quietly, not out of any shame of his return, but out of a goodwill-inspired courtesy. He had no real interest in disturbing whatever activity Martin had found to amuse himself. And in the few seconds between closing the door and turning to look, his ears picked up what his brain didn't immediately place - harsh gasps of breath that broke the silence of the room. He was already frowning faintly as he finally turned. The seconds stretched, his eyes widening as he took in the sight before him. Martin was there, still mostly dressed as he sat on one of the two cheap chairs the hotel had provided, with a magazine open on the table beside it. But he wasn't looking at the magazine, and Douglas' own eyes barely glanced at it, because somehow, they couldn't look away from the spectacle Martin had provided.

Martin wasn't precisely sitting on the chair so much as stretched out in it, legs splayed wide and straight past the edge and his body angled back, head draped over the back in a pose that offered up his throat to Douglas' eyes. One hand had lifted, a finger caught between Martin's teeth so that he gasped around it, but as Douglas watched, the hand fell away, Martin's tongue darting out to wet the dried lips, making them gleam in the dim hotel room light. His shirt was unbuttoned, draping open to reveal his undershirt shoved out of the way so that a dusky nipple peeked free, and his pants were open, shoved partway down his hips so that Martin's other hand could reach himself easily. And under the harsh breathing, too soft to be heard outside of the room but loud enough to eclipse all other sound in the room, was the sound of Martin's hand dragging over sensitive flesh. Long, delicate fingers ( _and how had Douglas never noticed the beauty of that hand before?_ ) pulled up and down, palm sliding along the side of Martin's cock before his wrist twisted and that same palm slid over the tip, eliciting a faint, barely-heard groan. Martin, it seemed, was a quiet one during sex, and a tiny corner of Douglas' mind wondered if he would be just as quiet when it was someone else drawing the pleasure from his skin.

Before he could do more than register it all, the sight so stunning that it had taken him entirely too long to gather his wits together, the final sight greeted him. Martin dug his heels into the cheap carpeting, his neck almost slamming back against the barely-cushioned back of the chair, and his hips lifted right off the seat, thrusting into his hands as the other came to his tip, curling around it with something white. Too busy staring at the purpled column of flesh, Douglas hadn't even noticed him grasping for a tissue, but there it was in his hand, cupped over his tip to contain the mess. His face screwed up, eyes squeezed tightly together against the pleasure, mouth open wide but no breath coming for long, silent seconds. His hips landed back in the seat as he curled forward a bit, and then he did finally breathe again, sliding bonelessly back as the force of the orgasm released him into floating bliss. It rocked Douglas to realize that the whole event, from the door clicking shut to the half-dressed puddle of Martin that remained, had taken less than a minute.

"Well," he finally managed, and the word sounded rusty in his ears, making him flinch just a little as Martin jumped, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. He padded forward, eyes shifting to the magazine while Martin scrambled to tuck himself away again, only half-cleaning the mess in his haste. But the aftereffects were not nearly as interesting or amusing as the page the magazine remained open to, and really, Douglas should have expected this as well. "I suppose the C-130 does have rather pleasing lines, all told." He smirked at Martin, eyes dancing at the way the after-pleasure blush on his cheeks darkened. Trousers still open but no longer revealing anything, Martin scrambled to his feet, grabbing the magazine and ducking away to the tiny bathroom. With Martin out of the room, Douglas glanced around and realized that there was really no evidence left behind, save a single crumpled tissue in the otherwise empty bin.

As Douglas stretched out on the twin bed he'd designated as his earlier in the evening, he crossed his arms behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling, wondering just how many times this had gone on without his knowledge. He let his eyes slide shut, but kept the amused smile on his lips, because he knew that would be teasing enough for Martin the whole night, all without a bit of work from him. And in the quiet, he was able to really think about what he'd seen...


	2. Chapter 2

At first, the memory remained a small one, intruding on Douglas in the quiet of his bedroom at home, couched in the edges of slumber that kept him from dismissing it. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but the thought of Martin's arching body only partially revealed lingered with him, creeping up on him in his more vulnerable moments. Unwilling to bring it up, Douglas set his own mind to sorting it all out. But after a week of the thought sneaking past his defenses, coming to the forefront of his brain earlier and earlier in the evening, sometimes even sneaking out in the flight deck as he sat next to Martin, Douglas had only come to one realization, and he wasn't even certain that one was a hundred percent accurate. But what stayed with him -- more than the pale skin, the flushed nipple, the dark cock, and the gingery wire-curls -- was the half-glimpsed expression of ecstasy on Martin's face. He had seen, in the scrunched eyes and gasping mouth, something that he, himself, had never experienced: a pleasure so sharp that it had almost been a pain. And once imagined, the thought remained with Douglas, niggling at him because he wanted just that.

His path toward getting what he wanted started with the most obvious solution of all: imitate Martin. Except that Douglas hadn't seen the whole of the ritual. He'd seen only the end of it, and so most of the rest remained conjecture. But it was conjecture he could work with, and Douglas wasn't precisely a novice at the concept of self-pleasure, either. He'd had his own little ritual that, for years, he'd considered quite good enough. It didn't bring stars and fireworks to explode in his mind, but it was a pleasant alternative to frustration on the days he had no lover. And it seemed to him that where he needed to start was not completely from scratch, but instead with his own method, adapting it as he could to Martin's until the two aligned and he'd experienced the white-hot volcano that had seemed to erupt within Martin.

He began with a magazine of his own. His was no Lockheed Martin catalogue, however. His was the far more traditional style, full of women in softly sensual poses, sometimes artsy but most often just enticing. The magazine remained with him for almost a week and a half of trial runs, one attempt each night. Without a single overnight flight during the time, he was free to return home each night to prepare, and prepare he did. He made a game of it, really. Once dinner was done, the dishes washed and set to dry overnight in the small drying rack in his sink, Douglas would strip, placing his clothes in the hamper and step into the shower only long enough to rinse the sweat from his body. Once he was out and dry, out came the magazine, placed on the pillow Helena had once used. A box of tissues was on his bedside table, and he took two of them, setting them down near his left hip, where his free hand could easily grab them before turning to whatever picture he'd designated for that night in his magazine. Every picture that captured his fancy got a go, and every single one of them failed to live up to expectations.

Oh, he came. Certainly he came, and it was quite an enjoyable event each time. But even through the hardest of his climaxes, Douglas remained aware of the world around him. He wasn't locked away into the pleasure as Martin had seemed to be. Caressing himself as Martin had done, adding that little wrist-twist that brought his palm to swipe over the head of his cock, had improved his fun, but not enough. He tried it with lubrication and without, with his own fluids as lubricant and completely dry ( _and hadn't that been an awful mistake, really? Never doing that one again._ ), but nothing was quite enough. He tried without the tissue, but quickly came to decide that Martin had the right idea there. The mess was entirely too annoying to clean up in the bliss of aftershocks, and he'd always hated touching it once it had gone crusty.

Every variable he could think of got added, over time. The bed gave way to one of his recliners, the recliner to one of his dining room chairs. When none of them felt quite right, he went shopping, but could find no chair that really seemed to match the chair he'd seen Martin in. Slowly, he added clothing, a piece at a time until he was fully clothed, everything pushed up or to the side or down to grant just enough access. He procured a Lockheed Martin catalogue, though he couldn't quite make himself turn to the C-130's page. While the plane was certainly a beauty, seeing 'Hercules' underneath, in bold blue print, derailed any pleasure. But there was the P-3 Orion, and that was a lovely picture itself, just as phallic as the C-130 but with a rather pleasing blue stripe near the wings. 

In the darker recesses of his mind, Douglas wondered what it was that Martin envisioned when his eyes closed, and rather imagined that Martin, idiot that he was, had some ridiculously impossible mental images of planes and insertion, or possibly planes fucking each other. However, Douglas' mind conjured up traitorous images of Martin himself, memories that almost-painful arch of his lithe body, of the hint of serious muscles hidden beneath his loose uniform, of fantasies of Martin now fully nude and flushed with arousal. They were simple fantasies, nothing that involved Martin with another being, human or aeroplane, and yet Douglas knew that it wasn't the shape of Martin's body that disturbed him each time with guilt and anxiety. Douglas had always found the masculine body just as delicious to admire as the feminine, if a little more streamlined. No, it was the fact that it was _Martin_ that disturbed him. Martin, his captain. Martin, his co-pilot. Martin... his friend.

And when it came right down to it, when every single attempt had failed for nearly a month, Douglas realized something else. 

It was Martin's advice he needed.


	3. Chapter 3

"And that's the cheese tray to me," Martin crowed, puffed up with pride as he sat staring at Douglas. Douglas blinked, drawn out of his circle of thoughts by the announcement to look over at where Martin was tapping meaningfully at his watch, and barely managed to stop himself wincing. He hadn't truly lost a game to Martin in ages. Oh, there was the occasional silent gift of letting Martin win, certainly, but to actually lose? Clearly, his distractions were becoming a serious detriment. 

Curling his lips in distaste, Douglas leaned back, affecting disdain as he turned his eyes back to the clouds outside. "What were we playing again?" he asked, trying to sound utterly dismissive, as though it had been worthless to even remember. Trying, at the least, to sound like it was all deliberate, when really all he could remember was that arch and gasp, the trio of colours, purple and peach and white, at Martin's tip as he came. For a moment, it etched itself in his mind anew, and when he came back to himself, Martin was speaking again. He'd been losing himself in the memory far too often, of late.

"...with an extra letter added in." The game, then. Douglas spared a moment to be grateful that Martin seemed to be taking him at face value, but that was quickly derailed as Martin continued. "You've been like this for days now, Douglas. What's going on?" He looked back at Martin, and found himself staring in rather stunned fashion at honest concern. "There's not something... wrong with you... is there?" The words were hesitant, a delicate two-step around the possibility that there is something deeply horrible at the heart of it, but Douglas could see the fear of just that on Martin's face. He couldn't really help it, a low chuckle slipping from him as he considered the careful question.

Knowing it was a mistake, Douglas couldn't quite stop himself from answering the question with a question. On the surface of it, he knew it was surely going to make Martin certain he was covering up some grievous problem, but there was a dark humour to it all, and Douglas had always been a bit partial to _humour noir_. "And what does Sir imagine could be wrong?" he asked, turning to look at Martin and tilting his head to one side, an eyebrow arching just high enough to indicate amusement at the very thought. He wasn't disappointed with the worry that clouded Martin's expressive eyes, or the way Martin's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping near the back. His cupid's bow lips pursed briefly, fuller even than normal, and Douglas' mind drifted back again to the memory of those same lips open wide in a gasp, tongue darting out to dampen them. Douglas shook himself out of the memory before it could take full hold again.

"Never mind," Martin muttered finally, turning to glare at the altimeters as his hands gripped at his armrests. Douglas sighed slowly, all entertainment at the teasing fading away in favor of a large dose of guilt that twisted his stomach. "Obviously, whatever is wrong, you won't talk about it with me," Martin continued, oblivious to Douglas' reconsideration. "I mean, why should you? You didn't tell me of Helena. You don't talk about anything except when it makes you look good. You probably wouldn't say anything even if it was something I could do something about, I bet." There was Martin's tongue, flapping about the floor in its haste to trip him up, uttering repetition and accusation in some vain attempt to make Douglas guilty enough to confide in him. 

"And is Sir so very anxious to help me out, then?" Douglas purred, more to forestall any more chatter than to actually ask, but it was a fair question, wasn't it? Certainly, Douglas had offered up his expertise at getting MJN out of all sorts of worrisome problems, but helping Martin in particular... Martin helping him in particular... those two events were so very rare, indeed. And yet, Martin had brought Helena's brown sauce without being asked, going out of his way to help Douglas with no requests in return, despite the petrol it had cost, or the time. And he'd never once said anything about Helena's misapprehension, not before the divorce, and not after. The more Douglas considered the whole situation, the more he became certain that when actual discretion was needed, as long as he was never directly asked, Martin was certainly trustworthy. And given how long he'd hid his own situation from Douglas, it became likely that perhaps Martin was trustworthy regardless of questions asked.

"You're not yourself," Martin muttered, scowling at the dials. "And if it were some deliberate wind-up, you'd have sprung the catch already, so what's going on?" 

"And where is Arthur in this grand inquisition?" Douglas smirked. Martin could certainly be trusted with personal discretion but Arthur, for all his good qualities, could not. Before he said anything, he had to ensure that Arthur wasn't about to pop in with coffee, or tea, or any other culinary disaster. Or, indeed, Martin's beloved cheese tray. Perhaps he really should have forced himself to pay a bit more attention earlier.

"He's watching his DVD," Martin said, thawing just a bit as he recognized the question for what it really was. "It only started ten minutes ago. We'll be lucky if he remembers the cheese tray before we've landed."

"We, Captain?" Douglas' smirk grew, a light dancing in his eyes. "I do believe, as you previously won said cheese tray, that the joy of such luck will fall squarely on your shoulders. Of course, knowing your luck as intimately as I do, I daresay he'll recall your tray once he's done the hoovering." He watched Martin sag at the thought, gathering his courage before adding to the conversation a small comment. "And... I suppose you've proven in the past that I can, indeed, rely on your discretion."

Douglas saw the moment the compliment hit home. Martin sat up straighter, shoulders squaring a tiny bit in pride and a faint not-quite-smile lurking about his lips as he looked over at Douglas. "Of course you can, Douglas. I wouldn't say anything about... well, anything, really. It will stay just between us." The words were so very earnest and reassuring that Douglas tensed just a little. He let the silence stretch out between them a bit, trying to sort out the best way to begin, as Martin slowly deflated a bit. It wasn't very hard for Douglas to see the pride leaving him, but it would come back soon enough. Perhaps. Provided, Douglas reasoned wryly, the embarrassment didn't kill him first. That could just be a real possibility, given Martin.

"Several weeks ago, I caught you _in flagrante delicto_ ," Douglas began, stressing the turn of phrase with his own bit of pride, and sliding his eyes over just enough to look quite pointedly at Martin's lap. Those long-fingered hands he continued to fantasize about fluttered for a moment, then came to rest, too casually to be realistic, just over his groin. Douglas smirked. "You were quite enjoying yourself at the time, I would say. Certainly you'd shut out the rest of the world." Douglas paused a moment, adjusting their bearing ever so slightly, then glanced at Martin again. "In fact, I daresay time actually stopped for you, didn't it? Does it always?"

"I... you... you want to talk about...," Martin stammered, the words tumbling over each other in fits and starts as he tried to weave a coherent sentence out of them. Douglas simply waited. If what Martin had said about Arthur's DVD was true, they had time. "We're not talking about that, Douglas," Martin finally hissed, his voice low and breathy and very firm, and Douglas looked away from him as the tone made his stomach twist and nosedive to the left in a rush of feeling. "Whatever's wrong with you has nothing to do with my... to do with... has nothing to do with me!" High colour stood out on Martin's cheeks, highlighting his rather exceptional cheekbones.

Douglas' lips spread in a smile. "Except, Captain that it has everything to do with me. Ever since that night, I can't help noticing that my particular form of... self-pleasure, shall we say... does not appear to be as effective as yours. Oh, I'm good at it; of course I am," Douglas added, before Martin could get the wrong end of the stick. "But there's nothing saying a man can't become better, right? The problem is, I imagine, that I didn't see the whole of your little ritual. Therefore, I can't seem to reproduce it accurately." The statement rolled off his tongue, blithe and carefree, but leave it to Martin to realize what it was he wasn't saying.

"You're trying to... to imitate me?" Martin finally managed, his voice hushed and stunned. "Douglas, are you saying... but you can't be, can you? What are you saying?" 

Douglas had intended a short question-answer session, a simple checklist of what he needed to buy and do in order to ensure his time was eminently effective. But the deepened tone of Martin's voice, the way it had dropped so neatly into an almost bedroom growl, stopped him cold. He glanced over again, noting the wide eyes, black pupils rimmed by thin bands of pale colour, and the way Martin's tongue flicked out to dance over his lower lip nervously, and it all came together for him. "I'm saying, Martin, that you'll just have to demonstrate for me. Tonight, in fact. You have no jobs listed on the wall chart, and adding a second to dinner won't be much of a difficulty."

"No." Martin's voice was flat when he spoke, his head darting around to look anywhere but at Douglas. He moved with tiny jerks, reminding Douglas of a tiny songbird. "No. We're not... I'm not... No. I couldn't. Besides," he burst out, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his armrests, "you just want something else to mock me with!"

Silence fell in the flight deck, stretching between them for nearly half an hour before Arthur broke it long enough to bring the cheese tray and hurry back to his movie. Douglas ignored Martin selecting bits of cheese, making no effort to persuade him to share. His brain was too busy offering up a round dozen ways he might've used to convince Martin to do as he wished, none of which he'd actually employed, frustratingly enough. When Martin's voice finally spoke up again, it was so soft that Douglas didn't immediately register it.

"Are you listening?" Martin demanded, but it was a low demand, soft and anxious and intense. Douglas glanced over, and that was enough to get him talking again. "I said, any time we spend the night in a hotel of Carolyn's booking, you have to give me an hour to myself in the room. Every single time." 

"What on earth are you babbling about now, Martin?" Douglas asked, his brows drawn together in confusion. When Martin tensed and looked away, he slipped out a hand, snagging a bit of gouda in his fingers and bringing it to his mouth swift and silent.

"As part of the agreement," Martin insisted. "From now on, it's guaranteed. It doesn't matter how tired you are, or whether you just want to stay in all evening and watch whatever passes for television there, you give me an hour where you're not in the room, or the bathroom."

Intrigued, Douglas said nothing. Surely Martin couldn't be negotiating for...

" _And_ ," Martin continued, stressing the word to ensure that Douglas didn't seem to think it was an 'or', "you don't say anything to anyone. Ever. No matter what, you don't breathe a word about the whole situation, present, past, or future." Martin wound down for a moment, biting his lower lip, then nodded to himself and straightened his back. "If you promise that, fair and square, and keep that promise... I will."

"Will what, Martin?" He could hear the amusement in his own voice, and at the same time, the bewildered curiosity.

"I'll come and show you. Tonight. But I won't eat there. Not... not beforehand, anyway. It's just me coming to...," Martin spoke rapidly, but it didn't stop Douglas slipping in a quip edgewise.

"Come?" Oh the glare he received for that one. 

"I'll demonstrate," Martin pressed on, firming his words as his hands kneaded at the armrests once more. "And then I'll go. Just the once, mind you. And only... only because I feel sorry for you!"

 _So_ , Douglas thought to himself with a frown. _No dinner. No socialising, just a nice little demonstration and then I'll be left to muddle through on my own once again. I suppose it's good I'm a quick study._ "At eight, then," he said, rather than giving voice to any of the hundred nerves running riot in his gut. "And bring whatever you need. I'd really rather not have problems because we have different preparations on hand." And if he decided to set aside a second plate of food in the refrigerator, purely to ensure that Martin had energy enough to get home after, well, that was his business.

"Eight," Martin confirmed, voice small.


	4. Chapter 4

It was two minutes to eight when Douglas heard the knock at his door. He'd eaten long ago, put away the food from his meal, and yes, he had made an extra plate for Martin. That plate sat on a shelf in the refrigerator, as artistically arranged as a roast and potatoes could be, though the carrots and broccoli added a touch of colour to the whole thing. The pie for after, made from limes Douglas had brought back from the Keys just the week before, was pale and undecorated, though he had been quite pleased with the taste. A large slice of that had also been set aside, under the transparent film as the roast and potatoes were, and ready to be offered to Martin if there was the slightest opportunity. The kitchen was spotless once more, the living room untouched throughout the evening, and Douglas' bed had fresh sheets that still bore the faint aroma of lemon detergent. And yet, all of his preparations made Douglas no more ready for the sight of Martin than he'd been the moment Martin had agreed.

When he opened the door, Martin stood beyond, a ratty blue backpack over one shoulder. Douglas stepped back, raising an eyebrow as Martin followed him into the house. "Welcome to my humble abode, Sir," Douglas smirked, shutting the door after Martin with a decisive little click that made the other man jump slightly. The click seemed to say, louder than Martin's presence or Douglas' welcome, that there was no turning back and their relationship, no matter what they chose, would take a sharp turn off-course. Rather than comment on it, or on Martin's nervous silence, Douglas simply led the way into the kitchen. "So tell me, Martin, will this be a simple demonstration, or have you budgeted time after for a question and answer session? I would hate to think that I missed out on a truly educational experience because of confused expectations, after all." He drawled the words just a bit, a tinge of amusement at the way Martin's face ducked down, warmth creeping into his cheeks. 

"I'm not even going to pretend this makes any sense to me, Douglas," Martin bit out, slinging the backpack off his shoulder and gripping the handle at the top with white-knuckled determination. "Or what you hope to get out of it." His head lifted again, eyes glaring at Douglas for a brief moment before flicking off to the left just a little. "But you're Douglas Richardson, aren't you? You always have a dozen ulterior motives that I never can guess." He adjusted his grip on the backpack for a moment before his eyes came back to Douglas' once more, and Douglas was left marvelling at the way the pale color of his eyes seemed swallowed up in black once more. "Just tell me something first, Douglas. Look me straight in the eye and tell me the truth. Is this going to be anything like our trip to Qikiqtarjuaq? Is this all some sort of grand plan to humiliate me completely?"

For a moment, Douglas could only stare back at him, noting the faint hint of a plea deep within those eyes, the way Martin's body was held almost painfully straight, the way his hands gripped the handle of his backpack so tightly that they threatened to leave imprints. What, really, did this tell him about Martin, that the man would show up on his doorstep still believing that he was destined for humiliation and mockery? Douglas couldn't quite tell, but he could try, at the least, to lay the fears to rest. Holding Martin's eyes with his own, and knowing that he could have done so just as easily whilst lying, he smiled quietly. "No, Martin. This is nothing more than honest curiosity. The art of solo pleasure has never been my strong suit." He considered leaving it at that, but something in him wanted Martin to understand. Instead of dropping it, he made his way over to the small table he kept in the kitchen, pulling out a chair and gesturing for Martin to sit down. Once that was done, he sat opposite. 

"I rarely want for company when I'm keen, you understand," he began, noting the way Martin slowly relaxed into the seat. The tension was still present, but he no longer seemed to be quite quivering with it. "Solo pleasure has, thus, never been a particular fascination for me. Rather, it's been perfunctory, something to get the job done when I can't be bothered to go out and pursue anything more strenuous." Martin's faint flinch brought back all the bumbling attempts at impressing passengers on MJN. "None of my partners ever seemed particularly inclined toward such a thing, either. Not with me in the room, at least," he smirked, then levelled his gaze at Martin again, intent that the man should understand. "Walking in on you that evening shouldn't have made a whit of difference, really. It was obvious that you'd snatched a few stolen moments, and that you felt it was to be over and done with in a matter of moments. You didn't even remove your trousers, after all."

"Yes, well...," Martin began, stammering the words a bit. Douglas lifted a hand to cut him off before he could try to explain.

"That wasn't what intrigued me, Martin." Douglas couldn't quite ignore the way his voice dropped a little on Martin's name, curling through the air like smoky whisky, but he put it out of his mind. "What intrigued me, Martin," he added, deliberately using the name again to see the way Martin's nostrils flared ever so delicately at the sound, "was the fact that you looked quite ecstatic. You gave yourself over to it with an abandon that I have never achieved. Such skill would be useful to me," Douglas continued, the intimacy of the conversation broken by the sound of his chair scraping over the floor as he rose. He didn't bother to look at Martin as he moved to start the kettle. A talk about his personal life demanded tea. "Particularly now I'm divorced. The thrill of the chase has faded for me, I daresay, and I find women rather more tiresome of late."

"'Women'?" Martin murmured. 

Douglas shot him a look. "As I've never been married to a man, yes." He took out two tea cups and set them beside the kettle before rummaging for the cream pitcher and sugar bowl.

"So, this is about Helena," Martin concluded. At some point in the conversation, he had set his backpack down, and it slouched against one table leg, reminding Douglas rather painfully of his daughter's old teddy bear. 

"And about tai chi, I suppose," Douglas nodded. "Though certainly not only about such things. Is there a particular reason I shouldn't strive to be completely self-sufficient?" The kettle clicked off, and Douglas went about the simple task of making two cups for them.

"And the only reason I'm here is because you happened to notice that this is something I seem good at." There was a hint of disappointment to Martin's words that made no real sense to Douglas. He was slumping a bit, his defiant posture slowly fading into self-consciousness. The sight of it made Douglas ache faintly.

"And because I trust you, Martin," he murmured quietly, setting one cup down before Martin before sitting down at the table. "As I said on GERTI, you've rather proved yourself by now. I suppose I could ask Arthur, but Martin, really... _Arthur_?" The pointed repetition of the name finally broke the nervous tension of the conversation, and Martin chuckled softly, the sound lovely and deep to Douglas' ears. "Carolyn, as you may imagine, is right out, and I have no desire to have this conversation with any of my ex-wives. Who else does that leave, then?"

"What about your Air England mates?" Martin asked, sipping at his tea.

"That would be tantamount to talking to Imogen," Douglas rolled his eyes. "And I do believe I just pointed out that I had no desire to speak of this to any of my ex-wives." He wondered, briefly, if the fact that the thought of Imogen's departure from his life no longer stung was due to time, or to the oddly easy companionship of the man across from him. He wondered, as well, what Martin thought of the fact that two of his wives had left him for other men.

"Why would that... oh," Martin breathed, catching on quickly enough to forestall any blatant explanations. Douglas was grateful for the small favor. A second later, he seemed to catch on to something else, as well. "Oh! Douglas, are you saying..." The words trailed off as his eyes narrowed at Douglas, but there wasn't enough of the question for Douglas to make a guess at the whole of it.

"Am I saying what, Martin?" he pressed, when the rest wasn't forthcoming. "Am I saying that the lure of an airline offset an interest in silk kimonos for one Mrs. Richardson?" The words twisted a bit in his mouth, his smile growing just a little sharklike. But Martin just shook his head at the question, ignoring it.

"No, Douglas," he countered. "Are you saying that... I'm your... best friend?" The words slipped out of his mouth slowly, tiptoeing between them on cautious cats' paws, and Martin stared down into his tea rather than push the matter.

It had been the very last thing that Douglas had ever expected to be asked, and he sat back in his chair, frowning at Martin in thought for long, silent seconds before slowly nodding. "I suppose I am, at that," he agreed faintly, the words surprising him. And what surprised him more than that was another thought. "I'd say you have been for quite a while now, really. I guess you learn all sorts of things over a discussion about masturbation, don't you?" As Martin lifted his head to look at Douglas, the older man quirked a small smile. The tension between them had bled away during the heart-to-heart, and he could see Martin's self-confidence returning, this time unhampered by defiance or fear. It was a comforting sight, made moreso by the way Douglas could feel his good humour returning. 

The night was becoming more promising by the minute.


	5. Chapter 5

Martin was nervous. Douglas could see it in the tense lines of his body as he set down the last of his preparations on Douglas' large bed. Some of it had made the older man a trifle uncomfortable, but he simply sat in his chair, offering no help. Douglas had never been particularly blind to Martin, and he knew the skittish look that Martin sported. Far better to let his friend find his own footing than force him to stumble on the path to it. The covers were stripped off the bed, folded away on the floor nearby, so that only the fitted sheet remained. Over that, Martin placed two threadbare towels that looked rather horrifically out of place amongst the more well-appointed linens. On one of the towels, he sat down loose tissues and a small, travel-sized bottle of baby oil. At the sight of it, Douglas sat back, his eyes closing as he tried to recall the scent of baby oil in the hotel room. He couldn't.

"Baby oil, Martin?" Though he spoke softly, the words sounded over-loud in the room. He could see Martin stiffen, but only a little, his hand hovering over the bottle before he nodded.

"I don't always have it with me, but I thought... if you were serious about this... you should see what I prefer." His back still to Douglas, Martin lifted his hands to begin unbuttoning his shirt. For all the nerves and stress of the moment, from such an angle, every move was graceful. Martin reminded Douglas of a wary gazelle, fine-boned and delicate but not so afraid as to run. He wanted to say so, but found himself certain that the moment he spoke, Martin's nerve would finally break and he'd flee. So Douglas remained silent.

Once his shirts were off, Martin took the time to fold them neatly, careful of wrinkles, before carrying them to the dresser. He set them down, then looked back at Douglas. "Your clock's a radio, isn't it?" he asked, and smiled faintly as Douglas nodded. "Can I use it?"

"Use whatever you like, Martin," Douglas murmured, his eyes tracing the clean lines of Martin's torso. He was thin, but there was a wiry strength to him, muscles drawn from lifting boxes for a living. And yet, he didn't seem to be starving, leaving Douglas to wonder just how many people really needed things moved from week to week. Certainly, Martin had never seemed on the verge of death in the flight deck, but there were times when Douglas had wondered just whether Martin could really manage as a man with a van, even in the hovel he'd described. His eyes finally flicked up to Martin's, and he blinked at the amusement there.

Martin sat at the foot of the bed, elbows on his thighs as he leaned forward a little. "You thought I was completely destitute, didn't you?" he asked, a wry note to his voice. "You came up with some sob story about how I was dying an inch at a time." The words struck far too close to home. Douglas looked away. "I guess I really didn't give you much else to go on. I don't like what I do, but... Douglas, it's the price of flying. It's the price of being captain, and I'd give anything for that. Besides, it's not like you ever left me much ego. I don't know why you look ashamed now." One shoe came off, a faint thump on the floor, and Douglas looked back cautiously.

"You make enough from moving?" he murmured, eyes locked on the way long fingers carefully rolled down black socks. There was a hole at the big toe, and the light caught the dark fabric of the heel, revealing an inexpert but careful darning. A second shoe and sock joined it, both moved neatly out of the way.

"And mowing. And hedge-trimming. And anything that needs doing, really. I'm a man with a van, and that's good enough sometimes, but I do the odd job here and there when it's not good enough." Douglas' eyes lifted, catching on Martin's, and there was sadness there. "I'm not afraid of manual labor. But it's not who I am. I just... want people to see that."

In all the time he'd been first officer at MJN Air, he could count on one hand the number of times he had looked at Martin and actually see a captain in him. Staring at him, half-dressed and sad, Douglas realised that the number had tipped over to hand two. He smiled slowly, the expression feeling somehow foreign on his face and yet completely natural all at once, and was rewarded with a smile from Martin in return. Martin nodded, hands lifting to his waistband. "I don't normally talk during this," he noted, voice muted. "Would you just... not talk until after? It'll help." Douglas nodded, eyes locked onto Martin's a moment longer before they finally dipped down to where Martin had unbuttoned himself.

Relieved, Martin slid his trousers off, whisking pants with them as though taking it more slowly would break his nerve. Fully bared to Douglas, he folded them away as well, then moved to turn on the radio. Opera, loud and jarring, blared out at them, and Martin laughed suddenly. The sound broke the final tension of the room, and he dropped down to sit on the bed as he fiddled with the radio, searching out a station with soft music. Only once that was achieved did he shift, stretching out over the towels and just laying there for a moment, eyes on the ceiling, hands on the join of hips and torso. There was no magazine, but as he lay there, eyes closed, Douglas began to realize that he didn't need one.

Spread over the mattress, Martin made a delightful sight. His pale skin stood out pink upon the cream of the sheets. For a moment, he didn't breathe, and Douglas could only think of marble, a statue study in promise. And then he finally drew in a slow breath, and Douglas saw the way his cock began to thicken, to rise without a single touch to it. It spoke of a patience that Douglas couldn't remember ever daring, of an imagination set to far more beautiful tasks than the nefarious means his own was used. Martin lifted one hand, reaching for the baby oil and opening it deftly, using memory rather than sight. Douglas had to wonder what he saw behind those closed lids and why the curiosity left him utterly breathless.

He anointed himself with the slick oil, drizzling it over his cock and hissing faintly as the cool liquid struck. Douglas flinched at the thought of the sharp contrast, but Martin's erection didn't flag. Another few drops fell on either nipple, and then the bottle was set aside, closing with a click to ensure no liquid would leak out onto the bed itself. Douglas wondered, distractedly, whether that spoke more to Martin's thrifty nature or apparent need for neatness. And then he lifted a hand and a soft draw of breath broke the silence. Lost in the sight as he was, Douglas didn't realize the breath was his.

Long fingers reached up, teasing delicate circles over Martin's nipples, spreading the oil until the dark nubs gleamed under the light. He didn't pinch or twist, but each light touch brought an accompanying lift from his hips, slight but there. Once the oil was fully spread, he reached down with his left hand to grip the towel at his hips, his right finger dancing over one nipple, then the other, flicking ever so gently at the pebbled flesh. His head pressed back into the thick pillow Douglas had provided, his adam's apple standing out in the arch of his neck. Douglas wanted to move forward, to touch it and see if such a caress might make Martin shudder hotly, but he remained sitting, his hands twisted to fists on his knees.

Finally, Martin's hand moved south, tracing a slick, shiny trail over the ridges and valleys of his torso, painting the hollow of his navel, skimming over the very top of his pubic hair so that it remained puffed out, a ginger cloud at his root. And then the fingers closed over his cock and pumped. The drag and pull of those fingers was a languid thing, no rush in the act, no push for the final pleasure. Martin took his joy from the journey, and Douglas smiled slowly at that. He spoke before he realised he meant to, breaking into the act with three words that he feared would shatter the moment, but somehow had to be said. "Just like flying."

Martin came back to himself at the words, lifting himself onto one elbow though his hand never stopped its unhurried pace. He stared at Douglas for a long minute, then smiled and sank back into the pillow with a sighed, "Yes." His legs spread, free hand dipping down to gather his balls up, slicking them with the remains of the oil and playing with them. "Talk to me, Douglas," he whispered into the air, lips remaining open after to draw in shaky breath before continuing. "Describe flying." His chest rose and fell with the greater need for air, nipples and trails gleaming fresh in the light.

Douglas laughed breathlessly, dropping back into his chair with a thump as he stared at the vision laid out before him. The request was so very _Martin_ , bringing him back into the moment and reminding him that it really was his friend laid out on his bed, looking like a feast of light and warmth and aching need. With a score of gentle instrumentals and increasingly harsh gasps, he began. "Flying, Martin," he murmured, voice honey-dark, low and winding through the room, "is like nothing else in the world. We sit in the flight deck, the only thing between us and thin air an aluminium tube that shouldn't get off the ground. And yet she does. GERTI flies, time and again, and I think she does it solely for you, Martin, because she knows that she's your reward, and you're hers." He had no idea where the fanciful idea came from, or whether it was what Martin wanted to hear, but he ran with it, too lost in the moment to censor himself. 

And Martin responded with stunning grace, hips lifting higher with every word, heels drawn in to dig down at the mattress just under his arse, knees thrown so wide that he was nearly split in twain. One finger dipped down to tease at the entrance revealed to Douglas, and the older man's words shattered on a sharp draw of his own breath. Without realizing, Douglas drew himself up, padded forward to stop just at the edge of the bed. He didn't reach out to touch, didn't disturb Martin, but more than the sight of that puckered hole sucking Martin's finger in, of the balls drawing ever tighter toward his body, of the cock, purple and proud, that stood stark against his stomach, Douglas needed to see Martin's face. He had expected to be greeted with an expression of twisted need, eyes screwed shut and mouth slack with breathing, but he wasn't. Instead, his eyes locked on Martin's, staring down into pools of almost pure black, his irises swallowed whole with need and want. 

And then everything stilled, all movement save one ceased as Martin came. His eyes were wide and blank, staring at Douglas without seeing him, his lungs frozen in a giant, soundless cry, his hand just gripping as fluid pulsed out to splash hot against his belly. It mingled with the oil there, swirls of Van Gogh amidst Mondrian's lines, as Martin took a slow, shuddering breath. He lay tranquil under Douglas' eyes, unmoving for long moments before one hand reached out toward the tissues. Before it could reach them, Douglas enfolded it in his own large hand, feeling the slick of semen and oil. They remained like that for what felt like ages, the only point of contact between them that single clasp of hands. And then Martin gently tugged free, reaching for the tissues once more. The moment was over.


	6. Chapter 6

Douglas could feel the moment Martin stepped foot into the kitchen, though his bare feet against tile were silent. It had nothing to do with sound, if Douglas were to be honest with himself. It was something in the air between them, some sort of charge that hadn't dissipated during the night, as they lay awake in separate rooms. It hadn't faded when Douglas rose from his sleepless night to shower and shave, hadn't changed when he'd started breakfast, and had only sharpened when he heard the sounds of Martin moving about as well. It was something that needed talking about, and Douglas had no idea where he was going to start.

"The roast was for me, wasn't it?" They were the first words the two had spoken since Douglas' high-handed insistence that Martin stay the night. Douglas wasn't really certain whether the lack of good night or good morning wishes meant anything at all. He wasn't sure whether he should even ask.

"Yes. The pie, as well. Did you enjoy?" He'd heard Martin moving about in the middle of the night, and found the drying plates in the sink come morning. That, too, left him uncertain, happy that Martin had eaten both, but unsettled at the thought that Martin might've felt the need to sneak to do it.

"You're a good cook, Douglas," Martin said, by way of answer. It was enough, Douglas decided as he set a plate in front of Martin. The omelette in the center was a creamy yellow, topped with slivers of ham, mushroom, and bell pepper, tomato slices draped against one side. He didn't look at Martin as he turned back to start his own, wondered if he missed an expression, then dismissed the thought. It was just food.

"Do you have a job today?" he asked instead, knowing Martin would understand the vague question. Eggs whisked hard, frothy with heavy cream, bowls of ingredients arranged in a fan to one side, empty plate to the other. Focusing on the details kept him from worrying at the delicate feelings hanging in the air between them. 

"No. Not until tomorrow. I'll go after breakfast, though. You probably want your home back." Which left Douglas with an omelette and a cup of coffee to sort it out, when he wasn't even quite sure what there was _to_ sort out. He just knew that if Martin left the house, whatever it was growing between them would wither away, leaving behind only the friendship they'd started with, and that seemed untenable.

He finished his omelette, started the water for the coffee, and then went to sit down. "Martin," he began, his fork left untouched as he stared at the young man across from him, drinking in the sight uncomfortably, because all he could see was the tension from the night before returned with interest. 

Martin sat ramrod straight, his posture so precise that it was painful for Douglas to look at him, and his eyes were downcast, staring fixedly at the play of colors over his plate rather than chance looking up at Douglas. One hand curled around the plate, fingertips plucking at the edge of it as he ate slowly. Staring at it, Douglas had the oddest need to reach out, through the empty space in the middle of the small table, and take that hand in his, holding gently. He could see that the skin wasn't smooth. There were scars on the back of the hand, calluses of menial labor and determination, stark freckles where repeated sun had soaked into the skin. Vaguely, briefly, Douglas thought of Helena's hand, the way her pale skin had been kept so very smooth with creams and ointments, the way she'd worried at every little spot or line. At the time, he hadn't thought much of it at all. It wasn't vanity. It was just who she was, and if it occasionally irritated him, that was a small price to pay. Martin's hand was nothing like Helena's, and unbidden came the mental image of taking some delicately-scented lotion and spreading it slowly over the hand, soothing white into tan to soften the skin.

Douglas cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly to banish the thought before looking up at Martin's eyes again. "Last night was something new," he began, choosing each word with such care that the whole of it came out slow and heavy, bedroom-low under the bright kitchen lights. Martin glanced up, staring at Douglas with eyes that were, once more, almost pure black, and the sight of them, those tiny rims of color around pupils blown wide, told Douglas that there was purpose to this maze he was feeling his way through. His own eyes dropped once more to that hand, recalling the way it had trembled slightly in his grasp. "But not an unwelcome change," he finally added, unable to think of anything more to say.

Martin inhaled shakily, then set his fork down. It clattered against his plate, ring of metal on ceramic, and both hands disappeared to fold in his lap. Douglas mourned the loss of the sight. "It... wasn't precisely new to me," Martin admitted softly, and the confession really didn't tell Douglas anything at all. As the silence stretched between them, Martin seemed to give in, shoulders slumping and eyes once more downcast, his cheeks warming to pink with seeming shame. "I've thought of it before. It's why I accepted." One hand lifted, the same hand that Douglas had held the night before, and rubbed at the back of Martin's neck slowly. Somehow, the action gave him the strength to continue. "I'm not angling for anything. There's no catch. But you asked. Well, sort of," he sighed, the hand slipping away again.

"For how long, Martin?" For how long had Martin looked without hinting, wished without words? For how long had Douglas misunderstood, misinterpreted, just plain missed the looks that Martin must have given him? For how long had Douglas been wholly and completely blind to the door that edged slowly open between them?

"It probably started with the brown sauce," Martin admitted, lips quirking into a sad smile. "And the advice. But mostly the brown sauce. I mean, it's such a stupid little thing, isn't it?" he added, words beginning to trip over themselves as his speech sped. "Just a bottle of brown sauce. When you showed it to me, I thought there was no way that was really you because no way would someone accept that as a gift. It's worse than an iron." Faint movement suggested Martin's hands twisting under the table, and Douglas shook his head. "But... then you explained, and I thought to myself, 'God, what I'd give for someone to care about me that much.' It was simple, and little, but no one would ever do something like that for me, and I would rather something like that than some big, showy whatever." He smiled, but there was bitterness there, and an old ache laid bare in the lines of his eyes. "I started dreaming someone would. Then you said about the tai chi, and... the dreams started being you." His smile grew self-conscious as he shrugged. "Now it'll probably be dreaming of holding your hand. It's enough, though."

Except, it wasn't enough. Douglas shook his head, staring down at his untouched meal for long minutes before making a slow decision. "I never know whether something will be good or not until I try it," he told Martin slowly, setting one hand out into the middle of the table, in the empty space between their plates, and leaving it there, palm up and beckoning. The kettle had clicked off at some point, but it was only in that moment that he finally noticed, because everything was hushed and heavy between them, waiting. "But I never have much liked being alone." His eyes lifted from his hand to Martin's face, and he breathed in slowly, carefully lest he shatter the tendrils between them. Martin stared back at him, unmoving, long enough for Douglas to begin to think that perhaps he'd been mistaken after all. And then he moved, and that callused, freckled hand settled carefully into the warmth of Douglas' larger one, not gripping, not holding. It wasn't a plea. It wasn't a request. It was an offering, simple and pure.

Douglas' fingers closed around it, a smile breaking out over his face as he relaxed. It wasn't until he saw Martin do the same, however, before he finally spoke up. "But don't think this means I'll simply let you have the cheese tray."

When they laughed, it was together.

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to say thank you to all the lovely readers on the meme who commented. It really helped me to relax and continue the story in the direction that felt right, and made me smile so hard to know that others enjoyed it, as well. You're all very lovely!


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